


Why or When or How

by Gobetti



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Egbertcest, Fluff, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gobetti/pseuds/Gobetti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re not sure what just happened, nor do you know why or when or how.<br/>You just know that... it kind of did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why or When or How

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_Thallium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Thallium/gifts).



> Someone mentioned there was nothing new in the egbertcest tag for over a month.  
> Alas, that is unacceptable, I said.  
> And this happened.
> 
>  
> 
> \--

He tastes strongly like tobacco and faintly like royal icing, but you’re not surprised.

He feels a lot like home and smells something akin to comfort, and in the end that is what scares you the most. The fact that you’re not shocked by this turn of events, how you’re not bothered or antsy or disgusted with the fact that you are french kissing your own father.

Instead you close your eyes and wrap your arms tighter around his neck, deepening the kiss.

He doesn’t hum, doesn’t moan, and everything in and about the kiss is silent, with little to no smacking of lips or the slick murmur of saliva against moist flesh.

And when he pulls back, you slowly open your eyes again, glancing up at him in wonder and confusion and dazzle, everything mixed together with curiosity and expectation, waiting, searching—

He looks sad.

Sad, sad, sad, so terribly sad, devastated and crushed and nothing like you have ever seen on him before.

It makes your heart clench, skip a beat in the worst way possible, crack into a thousand little pieces.

“Dad...? Did I do something wrong?” you ask, and he waves his head, closing his eyes so tightly you can see the expression lines in them. He looks even worse now, like he’s on the edge of tears, and wow you feel like you might actually _die_ if you see your dad crying. You furrow your brows up, worried that it was something you did why he’s like that, why he’s looking and feeling and hurting like that, because of _you_ —

“No, John. I did.” He replies, voice low and unsteady. His lower lip wobbles as he takes in a shaky breath, looking away from you, unable to meet your concerned gaze. He’s so quiet you doubt you would’ve heard him if the house wasn’t deadly silent, the hands on his sides curled up into tight fists. When he looks back at you, stares straight into your startlingly blue eyes, some of the tension melts from his face to drip down onto his shoulders, who slump tiredly, making him look older, exhausted; defeated, even.

“I am so sorry.”

You open your mouth to say something, _anything_ , but all that comes out is a weak squeak as your dad bends forward, eyes tightly shut, and kisses your forehead, so gently is as if he thinks he’s going to break you in two should he press harder, one hand lightly cupping your cheek. He turns around without looking at you again, walks up the stairs and closes the door to his bedroom, leaving you frozen in place, legs shaking and heart hammering away, stunned and confused and _hurt_.

Your name is John Egbert, you are fourteen years old, and you...

You’re not sure what just happened, nor do you know why or when or how.

You just know that... it kind of did.

And you still don’t actually know how you feel about it, nor do you think you’ll get your final answer all that soon, if ever.

 

\--

 

After that first time, he’d always leave way before you woke up and come back home long after you had gone to bed.

If you stayed awake, waiting for him, you’d peek out of your bedroom just in time to see his back disappearing behind the door of his own room.

It was heart wrenching and desolating. It made you confused and sad and desperate. Worried that your father didn’t love you anymore.

It went on for exactly three months.

A week before your fifteenth birthday he started treating you normally again. He was there at the breakfast table when you woke up, saying good morning, offering you bacon with your eggs.

You smiled at him, genuinely thrilled that he had crawled out of his cocoon, but you noticed how his smile was forced, how his back was uncomfortably stiff.

He kept it up through the entire week and the terrible act hurt even more than his silence.

Now, on your actual birthday, he let you invite your friends over, and there is tons of cake and soda and sweets and videogames accompanied by loud music and loud people and loud _everything_.

You can’t hear your father over the pounding noises and the thrum of the beat, but you doubt you’d be able to even if everything was still.

When the night is over and the last person has left, you look around at the mess the small crowd left behind, looking for your dad.

He is, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen.

But for some odd reason, you just know his bedroom door won’t be locked this time. You know he has gone off to his premises while you were distracted on purpose. You just know it.

So you walk up the stairs, stripping off your shirt and pants on your way up, twist the knob, push the door open just enough for you to slip in.

You lock it behind you as an afterthought, and you have no idea why.

You climb into the bed behind him, hide beneath the covers, spoon him. He still feels a little like stone, though warm from the bedding, breathing hard and uncomfortable. You fist his silk pajamas and shift closer to him until your bodies are flush together.

You are almost as tall as him, though you lack in mangrit. But that’s okay. You’ll catch up to him soon enough.

Maybe that’s what he’s been doing all this time.

Waiting.

“Dad.” You whisper, hiding your face between his shoulder blades. “I don’t want this anymore.”

“...what?” he asks, somehow short of breath and voice so low and raspy you barely hear him, almost like he’s afraid to ask the question he already knows the answer to.

“This. All of this. This stupid tip-toeing around the subject. This... avoiding home, avoiding meals, avoiding _me_. _Everything_. ...I just miss you, okay? I don’t want this anymore. _Please._ ”

“I miss you too, son.” He says, voice still rough and unsteady, but he doesn’t move. You clench your fists harder, stretching his button up shirt.

“Then why?? Why are you still doing this?! Do you hate me? If you do, then please, just tell me, I can’t not know anymore! I just want this over, so please, just fucking talk to me!!!”

He’s tense for a moment – tenser, if that’s even remotely possible – and you breathe in hard, eyes open and burning, stinging (you will not cry you will _not_ cry _youwillnotnotnot_ —) as you stare at his back, feeling his heartbeat behind your forehead and over your shaking hands. Finally, he shifts, moves, turns around so that he’s facing you.

He looks exactly like that day so many months ago, sad and desperate and lost.

“I love you.” You say, decided into not letting yourself lose it again, not know what to say and then not say anything because it all got chocked up inside of you. You lean into him, peck him on the lips, lean back to analyze his reaction. A silent tear rolls down his cheek, and all your efforts not to cry too shrivel up and die. “I love you, dad, I really do, so please... _please_. Just... say something. _Anything._ ”

But he just keeps crying, keeps looking at your face, pupils frantically scanning back and forth like he’s looking for something, like he doesn’t know what to do, like he needs help—

You lean forward again and kiss him, _harder_ , part your lips to deepen the kiss, and he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t utter a word, just lets you, lets you guide him through it, lets you take him, dances along with your rhythm and eventually melts into it. You hover over him a little and he tangles his fingers in your hair, places the other on your hip, and you cradle his face on both your hands, sooth him by rubbing your thumb over the slight stubble that covers his chin and cheeks while you glide your lips together.

He still tastes like tobacco. He still feels like home.

In the end you end up lying over his chest, allowing the rhythm of his heartbeat to lull you to sleep as he pets your dark hair, untangles it with his big and warm fingers.

Somewhere between consciousness and dreamland he whispers “I love you,” the sound thrumming and vibrating beneath your cheek, and you hum to him, shifting and curling up closer still.

The tension melts away from his form during the following days, and you grow closer and closer still; maybe too close to what a man and his only son should be, but you honestly don’t care. You are happy, and you can see in his words and smiles that he is, too.

Your name is John Egbert, you are fifteen years old,

and you’re still not sure of what just happened, or why or when or how.

But you don’t know if you actually care about such petty details.

 

\--

 

You don’t ever talk about “it”, nor do you label “it”, or do you try to understand “it”. You both know you don’t need to.

You talked everything there was to talk about on the night of your fifteenth birthday, with those simple three words.

You’ve caught up to him in mangrit and height, actually surpassing his own a bit, and it makes him swell up with pride whenever he has to look up a bit to greet you by the door. Your smiles are wider and his cakes are bigger, and you are taking an online graduation course so you don’t have to move out and away from home. You know your father would’ve supported you should you choose actually going to college after graduating from high school, but you know he was happy to know for sure that you really do enjoy spending time with him as much as he does. Happy to know you haven’t grown tired of him, and probably never will.

He comes home to you, and you kiss him. You help him with dinner, and he kisses you. He watches a movie with you, and you kiss him. You hand him his fedora before work, and he kisses you.

You two go to bed together at night, and you become one in everything you do, whether is make love, have sex, kiss deeply, kiss softly, cuddle and hug and breathe and feel and sleep.

Your name is John Egbert, you are twenty-one years old,

and you’re still not sure what happened.

But that’s okay. Most thing in life can’t be explained anyway

like how his touch makes your heart race

or how only you can make him laugh just like that

or how beautifully he sings when you’re alone

or why or when or how.

But in the end it really doesn’t matter.

You have each other. And that’s enough for the two of you.


End file.
